


blackberry vodka

by spacershepards



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, RvB Rare Pair Week, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 05:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10892433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacershepards/pseuds/spacershepards
Summary: going undercover as a married couple gets a lot stranger when you're kind of dating.





	blackberry vodka

“I'm _bored_ ,” she says, practically throwing herself at the bed. “And tired. And hungry.”

Wash barely looks up from his datapad. He's gotten used to her doing this, gotten used to her complaining. It's not like she does it a lot... but enough that he's used to it. He doesn't mind – she seems to get over things better if she has time to rant about them. “I think there's an apple in my backpack.”

“I _hate_ these kinds of missions.”

He does too.

“I mean, really! Why not send York and Carolina? Or, heck, York and _North_ – they got _way_ more chemistry. If you're gonna send two people on a mission, tell 'em to be a fake couple, the least you could do is send people with _chemistry_.”

“Are you saying we don't have chemistry?” It's ironic, he's thinking.

She rolls her eyes, laying her head on his shoulder. “'course we do. It's just... you know... didn't think they'd send either of us on a mission like this.”

“Because nobody knows we're dating?”

“Because nobody knows we're dating! Though, _I'd_ say it's a bit more of a 'two people who are attracted to each other and are fucking' than 'dating.'”

“So we're _not_ dating?” Great – he'd told his mother he had a girlfriend. Now what's he going to say to her when she asks? 'No, Mom, I don't have a girlfriend. She just likes sleeping with me.'

No, not... not that.

“Well,” says South, sitting up and moving one of the pillows, “we never actually _discussed_ –”

Then, Wash's datapad beeps. Instructions. Their target, Esposito, is already at the club. He's thankful for Florida being their lookout, but when the fake married couple's having a conversation about if they're actually dating or not, it's... not exactly the greatest thing.

“We gotta go,” he says, hoping his voice doesn't strain too much. “We can, uh... finish this conversation later.”

“Okay,” she says, sliding off the bed and grabbing a pair of black heels and a matching dress and disappears into the bathroom.

So he stays in there and struggles to tie his tie. After the sixth time attempting it, he groans, sits down on the bed, and covers his face with his hands. He hears a faint clicking against the floor, doesn't look up.

“Need help with that? 'cause I used to help North tie his.”

When he does look up, she's standing right in front of him, in a black dress that's a tiny bit too small and a tiny bit too tight. Though he doesn't really mind, 'cause God does she look _really_ nice in a dress, with her hair tucked behind her ears and her eyeliner smudged.

Okay, so maybe he's a _little_ taken by her. Or maybe more than a little.

“Uh,” he says.

She takes that as a yes and fixes his tie.

* * *

The club's a _lot_ fancier than he expected. Yeah, they knew to dress nice, but he didn't realize how fancy it was. The bouncer glances at their ID's four times before letting them in – and thank goodness he doesn't notice they're fake, because otherwise, the Director would have a field day.

“Alright,” South whispers. He slides a hand around her waist, as though that'll make them look more married. “You see him yet?”

He glances around, staring at the black-painted walls and the multi-colored flashing lights floating around and the comfortable sofas and the glass wall that looks like a waterfall winding around the floor, separating the bar from the dance floor. Music practically vibrates through the air – loud enough that he can almost feel it. Everyone's dressed nice, in gorgeous dresses or really nice, formfitting suits. Everyone, even the waiters and the bartenders.

“We should order a drink,” he says. “Make it look more... natural.”

“Okay.” She slips away from him, practically glides up to the bar, flashes a smile. “We're new in town, and this is, y'know, our first time here... what would you suggest?” Her voice sounds a tiny bit unnatural – too sweet, too... unlike South. Most people probably wouldn't notice – heck, he _barely_ does. North could probably tell right off the bat that she's being fake.

The bartender says something quietly, and South nods, laughing almost sweetly.

Wow, her laugh sounds nice.

He's too busy watching her that he almost forgets to keep an eye out for their target. Well – he _does_ , until he hears Florida's voice in his ear. “ _He's here._ ”

Wash turns away from the bar, glancing out over the dance floor, at the people standing around, at the people sitting on sofas drinking or eating. No sign of their target – someone who's not exactly easy to miss, being 6'8” and supposedly dressed in bright aqua blue.

South reappears, holding two neon purple drinks in either hand. They have cute yellow umbrellas sticking out of blackberries that're somehow floating at the top. Nice? Maybe? “They're vodka and blackberries,” she says, handing him one, then wrapping her arm around his. She leans over, like she's going to kiss him on the cheek, and whispers, “do you see the target?”

“Uh... no, not yet.”

“Okay, then drink up. Then... we should probably dance. More realistic than just standing there.”

He nods, taking a sip. The alcohol taste is pretty much covered by the blackberries and something unnaturally sweet. He's not sure if he likes it or not, but he sure likes the look on South's face when she takes a sip, the tension visibly releasing from her shoulders. He didn't even notice she _was_ tense.

“God, this tastes _just_ like the jam my mom used to make.” She starts drinking it quicker.

“Your mom made jam?” he asks, surprised, raising an eyebrow. “I really can't see you as someone who's mother made jam.”

She elbows him in the ribs. “Shut up. We grew up on a colony, had to make our own preserves and jellies and shit.”

“So, what... you grew up on a farm?”

“Shut up, Wash.”

He laughs, and glances out over the dance floor.

And then...

“ _There_.”

She grabs his drink out of his hands, downing it almost immediately and frowns. “You sure?”

“Yeah. He's wearing aqua, and he's taller than almost everyone in here. He's our guy.”

“You wanna get him or should I?”

“We're just supposed to study him,” Wash says, frowning.

“Ugh.” South leans up against him, her hair brushing his shoulder. “Okay, so... wanna dance?”

“I... sure?” he says.

Then, she grabs his hands and drags him towards the dance floor.

The music's loud, and he can barely hear, but he can tell she's talking. He moves a little closer, trying to hear her better, then realizes she's mouthing along to the lyrics.

Something about falling in love.

At least it's kinda catchy.

Wash glances over her shoulder, watching their target dance with a shorter blond guy. “Do we know if he brought a date here?” he asks Florida.

“ _I don't think so! Maybe he picked someone up there?_ _I see who you're seeing – I'll run a background test!_ ”

Wash glances past the people on the dance floor, eyes landing on Florida. He's sitting in a booth with a few incredibly attractive guys, all staring at him. Florida may not be York attractive, but _apparently_ here he is. Either that, or he's invaded their space and is telling that story about the time he shot a guy holding a penguin and didn't kill the penguin – or get blood on it.

“Okay. Uh... good luck?”

“ _I won't need it! His name is Johnathon Traton. Do you want to know where he's from? His mother's name? The names of his exes? Where he works?_ ”

“No?”

“Who're you talking to?” South says – well, basically screams. He expects someone to look over, frown, something – but nobody does. They're too caught up in the music, which is now a faster-paced song that he can't _help_ but want to jump up and down to.

He points at his ear, which probably looks like some weird dance move. Luckily, nobody notices.

South keeps dancing, spinning around, grabbing at Wash's hands. Either she's tipsy, likes dancing, or she's _really_ good at acting like she's happy to be here.

Dancing.

With him.

Pretending to be his _wife_.

He wishes he knew exactly where they stood in the whole dating-or-not department.

“ _Esposito is moving towards the men's restroom. He's taking a call, you may want to hear it._ ”

“Good to know,” Wash says quietly, grabbing South's hand and pulling her through the dance floor. She yanks her hand away once they're out of the way, glaring at him.

Yeah, that's way more like her.

“Stay here,” he says, with literally no confidence.

“Don't tell me what to do, Wash.”

“Okay, fine! The target's going into the bathroom, so if you _really_ wanna go in there...”

“I'll just wait outside.” She pauses, listening to something – it's _probably_ Florida. “Change of plans. I'm gonna... go keep an eye on his date. Florida pulled something up.”

“Okay... be careful?”

She laughs, the flashing lights illuminating her like a halo. “I'll be fine, Wash.” She pulls herself together after a second, eyebrows knitting together. “Break a leg, or... whatever they say.”

He wants to say something else, but then Florida's saying something, and he turns away to head towards the bathroom. He only glances back once, but he doesn't see her.

Instead, he pushes the bathroom door open.

The music softens.

There's the target, standing in front of the sink, preoccupied with his phone. He's talking, speaking in rapid Italian – the device in his ear is quick to translate. “Don't worry, Bianchi. We'll be _fine_. Nobody's caught on yet, and they won't... as long as _you're_ careful.”

Wash steps into one of the stalls before the target notices he's listening in.

“Trust me. I'll get what we need. And I'll make _sure_ we don't get caught. For example,” he says, and Wash doesn't notice at first that he's not talking in Italian anymore, “by the man listening in on this conversation.”

He can see the target's feet from beneath the stall door.

Wash _carefully_ grabs the pistol hidden in his jacket, stuffs it in his pocket.

“So... are you going to come out, or am I going to have to break this door open? I _saw_ you and your girlfriend following me.”

Wash stays quiet.

Carefully reaches towards the door.

Carefully opens it.

Esposito's standing there, holding a gun in one hand, and the phone in the other.

“I'm going to have to call you back, Bianchi.”

“Worst phone call ever,” says Wash. Quietly. He really does _not_ want to get killed because of his stupid mouth.

“What was that? Speak up,” says the target, leaning towards him.

Wash reaches for the inside of his jacket.

The target points his gun at him.

It's _enough_ of a distraction for Wash to grab the gun out of his pocket and point it at the target.

“Oh, so you've got spunk, don't you?”

“Uh,” says Wash, mentally checking to make sure he took the safety off, praying he did, “something like that?”

He can tell he's _about_ to die. He can tell the target's _about_ to pull the trigger. He wonders how it'll feel to bleed out in a really nice bathroom, at a really fancy club, with electronic pop music playing in the other room and drowning out any signs of a struggle in the men's restroom.

He doesn't get the chance to find out, because the door slams open and there's South, and for a second she's the most beautiful and most terrifying thing he has ever seen. South aims a gun at Esposito (Wash wonders how she snuck _that_ in), her eyes narrowed. “Step away from him.”

“Oh, so the girlfriend's gotta gun, too? What _is_ this – a police movie?”

At least he's _kinda_ humorous.

South charges towards him. In high heels.

Holy shit.

She kicks at the target, landing a few punches in between – enough to daze him, enough to distract him – and Wash pulls the trigger, hitting him square in the chest. He doesn't even seem phased – he just steps backwards, nose scrunching up, and aims his gun at South. And shoots.

South hits the ground.

Wash kicks the target into the sinks, pressing the gun to his forehead.

“Don't kill me! Please, I didn't –” He's begging now, his eyes wide. Clearly he didn't expect it to go this far, with a gun to _his_ head. “I'll give you whatever information you want! I'll do anything, please don't pull the trigger, I'll...”

He pulls the trigger.

The target crumples to the ground.

“Florida, South's been hit. We need...” He's on his knees, checking for a pulse.

She turns to her side, opens her eyes, and glares at him.

“You _really_ thought I was hurt?”

“Uh,” he says, staring at her in shock. “ _Yes_?”

“Gonna take a lot more than one bullet to take _me_ down, Wash.” She laughs, sitting up. “Besides, it only grazed my shoulder. Figured if he thought I was down, you'd have a better chance.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. M'not gonna die any time soon, 'kay?”

“Good,” he says. “I'd hate to lose you. Well, I mean, I'd hate to lose _any_ of my teammates, but...”

“Can we talk about this back at the hotel?” she says, moving her hands towards his shoulders. He realizes she's slipping off his jacket, and stares at her for a second. Then, she yanks it off the ground and pulls it on.

Oh.

“Uh,” he says.

“What? Don't want anyone seeing my shoulder.”

“Well, I mean,” he says. Fuck. “That makes sense.”

“You didn't think... God, Wash, you really are quick to jump to conclusions, aren't you?” She pulls herself to her feet, dusts off her dress. “Now, should we hide this body or just leave it? 'cause I want another drink.”

They decide to hide the body in one of the stalls, after ransacking his belongings and getting out the flash drive they were sent here for in the _first_ place.

* * *

After at least three hours of South downing drink after drink of that blueberry vodka stuff and repeatedly pulling Wash onto the dance floor, they finally collapse in a booth. South orders some fancy Italian food Wash couldn't pronounce if he tried, and sits there picking at pieces of pasta with a fork. At some point, she's drunk enough to try to feed some of it to Wash.

“You two make a cute couple,” says the waitress, taking South's cups off the table and putting them onto her tray. Wash didn't even notice she was there.

“Thanks?” says Wash.

“We do, don't we?” says South, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Guess that's why we just got married.”

“Aww, is this your honeymoon?”

“Yeah,” says South, giggling.

“Congratulations! Have a nice night,” says the waitress, disappearing with her tray.

Wash waits a few seconds, watching South bounce her knee to the music. Finally, he says quietly, “You really think we make a cute couple?”

“Well, I mean, I _wasn't_ gonna say we don't.”

“Do you think we'd make a cute couple... if we were, you _know_ , an actual couple?”

“As opposed to a fake one?”

“Yeah.”

“And not two people who just fuck?”

“Yeah.”

“God, Wash... you're not getting romantic, are you?”

“Maybe I am,” he says.

She looks at him, and leans forward, and presses her lips to his. She tastes like blueberries and alcohol, sweet and tangy at the same time. “I _think_ I like the idea of you being romantic more often.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, but don't push it.”

That's enough for him.


End file.
